


stop being haunted by the ghost of yesterday

by memoriesofalostgeneration



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by The Haunting of Hill House, Not gonna lie this story is depressing lol, POV Multiple, Suicide, all other character are side characters, focus of this story is the relationship between the stark sibs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24881845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memoriesofalostgeneration/pseuds/memoriesofalostgeneration
Summary: It’s Winterfell. The house stands tall above him and he is so cold and so scared. There is graffiti on the sign and he thinks he should tell the Night’s Watch about that because aren’t they supposed to make sure that no one steps onto the property.Winterhell.It is pretty apt graffiti, but it shouldn’t be there. His phone rings.He steps inside.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Rickon Stark & Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Robb Stark/Jeyne Westerling (mentioned), Sansa Stark/Willas Tyrell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Sansa I

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a story I wrote to deal with the grief of losing my mother. Then I watched Haunting of Hill House and it morphed into this pseudo-fusion.  
> This story is admittedly a little heavy, with themes of grief, suicide and depression amongst others. It is also a ghost story. Please be careful and gentle with yourself if you decide to embark upon this journey. I will post additional chapter warnings before every chapter, but as this story starts with major character death, please be warned that this story will heavily deal with suicide.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns bad news and goes back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: Hanging imagery, mild horror, mentions of suicide, mentions of vomit. Please take care of yourself!

The Godswood is a familiar sight: the tall, massive weirwood standing high above her from her seat at its roots; the face a long-passed Stark must have etched into the trunk seems to be staring down at her, red sap dripping from the corner of one eye. There is no one here with her, and the suffocating silence of the Godswood is loud enough that she can hear her heart beating loudly in her ears.

“Little Stark,” the wind whispers, a breeze lifting her hair and she knows the scene well enough already to stand, taking a step back from the weirwood tree in preparation of what is to come. “Has not enough blood been spilled in our grounds today?”

She looks up. The horror rises in her throat, though it’s a sight familiar as well, but the body hanging from the lowest branch sways gently in the breeze. She doesn’t breathe as the body turns, slowly, and doesn’t exhale until the dark eyes of her father are no longer fixed on her.

“Little Stark,” the whisper says, “are you not happy to see me?”

She doesn’t look from the body, from Ned Stark’s long face and dark hair and the Stark cloak that gently flutters in the breeze. She doesn’t look away even as a hand rests heavily on her shoulder.

“What about it, child?” The familiar voice asks, much closer now. She wants to refuse to look at him, but there is no chance of that. “Have you thought of my proposal yet?” The face of the man is as inhumane as it has been since she dreamed of him first, too sharp and too other to be truly human.

“No,” she says, as she always does.

The almost-man smiles, as he always does. “If that is your wish, child.”

“It is.”

He disappears again, just as quickly as he had come, only the bare whisper of him remaining in the tread in the snow. Instead, he is replaced by a face she would not forget as long as she would live. She looks away, her stomach twisting. She knows what comes now.

Father reaches out.

His touch burns and the ice spreads from her shoulder, down her arm to her fingers, up her collarbones, down to her legs. The ice burns. She chokes against it. “Please. Daddy,” she whispers, trying to push Father away.

It won’t do any good.

She only has to wait, wait for the ice to spread, through her veins, freezing her blood just in time for the ice to reach her heart.

Sansa wakes like she always does, heart pounding and frozen to her core. She is lucky her gasp hadn’t woken Will and the warmth of his body plastered against her back does nothing to warm the cold that rests within her. Sighing, she untangles herself from her husband and slips into her nightgown and slippers.

She hasn’t had the dream in over 4 years. Her therapist had said that was a good sign, a sign that her mind was healing which was anything Sansa could ask for. She wanted, no she needed it to be over. But now, the dream was back and with it the horrible feeling of dread that Sansa had only been able to shake when she had moved as far away from the North as she had been able to. She doesn’t quite remember when the dreams had started. It had been sometime before Jon had started living with them, so she must have been younger than 5 at least. She still remembers the horror she felt upon waking and how she had run to her parents’ room, unable to stop weeping. Even upon seeing Father alive, it had taken her days to properly calm down.

Sansa quietly starts making herself tea, a ritual she had started sometime in her teens when she had long stopped telling Mother and Father about her dreams. They reoccurred every few months at first, when she was younger, growing in frequency when she had been a teenager until she woke up every night frozen solid and gasping against her tears. They had abruptly ended when Daddy died, replaced by an entirely different kind of nightmare and Sansa had almost been absurdly grateful, but then the dream had started again, maybe once or twice a year.

She hadn’t had a dream since Alissa was born, almost 5 years ago, but now it was back and Sansa almost reaches for the phone to call – someone. Instead, she takes her tea to the living room and settles on the couch.

 _I am fine_ , she tells herself, looking around the room. She takes in the pictures on the fireplace mantle, of Will and Alissa and Joss. She is fine, while she is here, at home, at Highgarden with Will and his family. She is fine.

*

It takes another two hours until Will wakes. He comes into the living room, kissing her on the top of her head absentmindedly on his way to the kitchen. She watches him make coffee quietly, watching the welcome and well-known ritual of Will mixing milk and sugar before he pours the coffee in. She smiles as some of the cobwebs lift from his eyes after a few sips.

“Good morning, Mrs Tyrell,” Will says sweetly, taking a seat beside her. “Have you been awake long?”

There is a hint of worry in his eyes, so Sansa smiles, wondering if it looks as brittle as she feels. “Not for long,” she lies. “Lissy and Joss are wondrously still asleep, so I am enjoying the quiet.”

Will laughs, leaning forward to kiss her. “I know a few other things we could do with a few minutes of quiet.”

Sansa smiles into the kiss, the taste of Will’s coffee bitter on her lips and she grimaces pulling away. “After you’ve finished your devil’s drink.”

Will pouts, but he only takes another sip of his coffee. Sansa is pretty sure he would choose coffee over her one day, if pressed, but for now she only enjoys how dumb Willas is before he has his first cup.

They sit in the silence of their home comfortably until the distinct shrill cries of Joss blare through the baby monitor and Willas groans melodramatically. “I’ve got her,” Sansa tells him, sweetly. “I don’t want you to drop her because you are still asleep, babe.”

Will pouts again and Sansa kisses his bottom lip teasingly, before she leaves.

Joss is standing in her crib, furiously weeping and Sansa swings her up, onto her hip. Joss immediately buries her face in Sansa’s neck, her hands grabbing at Sansa’s braid.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Sansa asks Joss in a whisper. “Did you have a bad dream?” She runs her hands through Joss’s curls and kisses her baby on the head.

Joss’ crying has slowed into deep sobs, and Sansa sighs, carrying her back into the living room, where Will waits for them. He takes Joss from her and Sansa pretends like the sight of her daughter’s crying stopping because she is in her father’s arms doesn’t hurt. Sometimes she wonders if it makes her a bad mother to be jealous of her own husband. Will is so clearly Joss’s favorite and for the longest time she was sure it made her a bad mother.

“I’ll wake Lissy,” Sansa says quietly. Will nods at her, his attention mostly on comforting Joss. She retreats and knocks at Lissa’s door.

Her baby isn’t awake yet, and Sansa watches her sleep for a moment. Unlike Joss, who is so clearly Tyrell, Lissa doesn’t look like Sansa or Willas. She looks entirely like Arya had at that age, small and coltish with dark hair and dark eyes. Her hands are twitching by her side and Sansa smiles at the sight. Sansa wakes her with a soft kiss to her forehead, kneeling beside Lissa’s bed to watch her wake with slow blinks. Lissa grumbles, trying to roll to the other side of the bed, but Sansa stops her with a touch to her side. “It’s time to wake up, Lissa,” Sansa says.

Lissa grumbles, but she sits up and Sansa runs a hand over her daughter’s hair. “Breakfast is almost ready,” she says. “Get dressed.”

She leaves the door to Lissa’s room open and goes back to the kitchen. Will is fixing Joss’s food and Joss sits in her highchair, waving around wildly with her spoon. Sansa takes the bowl of muesli Will offers her and takes a seat by the table.

When she had been younger, breakfasts as a family had been a rarity, saved for special occasions such as birthdays or holidays. Normally, Robb had woken too late to eat breakfast before leaving for school, Sansa had taken too long to get ready, Father had left for work earlier than most of them woke and Mother had been too tired chasing Rickon around to sit at the table.

Breakfast together had been something Sansa had been firm about and Will was kind enough not to ask why she was so adamant about it. She didn’t think he minded either way. She had never told him the entire story of what happened at Winterfell, but she was sure Olenna or Margaery had done some digging into her when she and Will had first started dating, so Will must know some of it. His lack of curiosity had been one of the things she adored about him when they first started dating and Sansa still appreciated it as much now.

Her phone chirps twice on the fireplace mantle and Sansa sighs, stepping away from the table. Will sends her a look – no phones at the table is as much a rule as having breakfast together – but Sansa only sends him a grimace. She is waiting for Bran’s call and if she doesn’t answer she doesn’t know when she will be able to talk to him again.

It’s not Bran.

Jon: [7:23] We are celebrating Rick’s birthday at Ed’s today. Arya is calling in at 6

Jon: [7:23] Rick would be happy if you called in as well

Sansa scowls at the words. How dare he think she would not call in? She may not have been there for Rickon much, not like Uncle Edmure and Jon had been, but she would not forget his birthday.

Sansa: [7:26] I will call in.

She leaves it at that and puts the phone back, screen down. “Are you home later?” she asks Will. “We are calling Rickon later.”

Lissa lights up where she sits. “Rickon!” she squeals, delighted.

“It is Rickon’s birthday today,” she tells her daughter.

Lissa gasps, clapping her hands together. Birthdays are Lissa’s favorite, though Sansa isn’t sure why her daughter places so much importance on birthdays since neither Will nor she really celebrate theirs. It is cute though, and so Sansa only smiles fondly at her daughter at her thrilled reaction to Rickon’s birthday.

“I’ll come home early,” Will promises. “I haven’t spoken to Rickon in a while.”

The words are spoken in a musing tone, just Will thinking aloud, but Sansa winces. She hasn’t spoken to Rickon since he visited her at Highgarden nearly a year ago, just after her birthday. She spoke with Uncle Edmure sometimes, so she knew he was well, but Rickon – Sansa had enough on her shoulders, without having to deal with Rickon too.

She shouldn’t resent Rickon, it is unfair to him and her, but she does. She resent his ability to forget, to be able to live a vaguely normal life while the rest of them have so many issues Sansa cannot even count them. Still, Sansa feels horrendously guilty whenever she thinks about it because she is basically wishing Rickon were as twisted and hunted as the rest of them. Rickon had been Lissa’s age when they had left home. Not home, Sansa corrects herself. Winterfell.

Winterfell was home for so long and there are moments where she misses it with all of her soul. The mansion had been larger than life, much too large for their family and their family had been much larger than most. She had been born at Winterfell, a winter storm shrieking around the tower walls. Mama had told her once that they had been afraid she would die as neither the doctor nor the local midwife could make it up the hill and Mama’s labor had lasted almost twice as long as it had with Robb.

“When you were born though, my love, you were screaming so loud your Papa came running into the room, worried that something had happened,” Mama had said. “But I knew then, my love, that you would be fine, because you were my girl, and nothing would ever change that.”

Mama had taken her hand then, gripping it tight, and Sansa had nearly fallen over in her haste to get away from the bed.

They had all done terrible things after they left Winterfell but locking Mama away had hurt the most then and it still hurt her now. What would have happened, Sansa wonders sometimes, if Mama had been the one to take care of them after Father died, instead of Uncle Edmure? Where would they all be now?

“Sansa?” Will’s voice takes her back and Sansa is abruptly aware she has frozen in place. Will looks worried and she smiles at him.

“Sorry, I was just thinking about the last time we saw Rickon,” Sansa lies. “I should ask him to visit again.”

Will doesn’t lose the worried look in his eyes, but he nods. “Or maybe we can go north to visit him and your uncle. I would like to see where you grew up.”

Sansa’s heart sinks. “No.”

“Sansa-“

“No.” She shakes her head. “I am never going north again.”

Will stays quiet for a moment, and then he nods. “Okay, if you say so.”

**

The Godswood is a familiar sight, the tall, massive weirwood standing high above her from her seat at its roots. The face, a long-passed Stark must have etched into the trunk, seems to be staring down at her, red sap dripping from the corner of one eye. There is no one here with her, and the suffocating silence of the Godswood is loud enough that she can hear her heart beating loudly in her ears.

“Little Stark,” the wind whispers, a breeze lifting her hair and she knows the scene well enough already to stand, taking a step back from the weirwood tree in preparation of what is to come. “Has not enough blood been spilled in our grounds today?”

She looks up. The horror rises in her throat, though it’s a sight familiar as well, but the body hanging from the lowest branch sways gently in the breeze. She stares at the body and waits for her Father’s dark eyes to bore into her, unseeing.

Instead, the eyes are blue and unseeing and Sansa screams as the body drops from the tree. She races to Robb’s side. “No, no, no, no,” she breathes, hands hovering over her brother’s chest trying to find the wound, knowing she won’t find one.

Robb stares up at her, his mouth open just slightly and his long red curls are spread around him on the cold ground and snow. He is limp and Sansa gasps.

“Little Stark,” the whisper says, “are you not happy to see me?”

Why now? Why would the dream change now? She has had the exact same dream since she was a little girl and now it was not Father hanging from the weirwood, but Robb. “What is this?” She calls out.

The almost-man should have already touched her by now, but there is no one around her as Sansa turns around and around in the Godswood. There is no one there with her but Robb’s corpse and Sansa feels her heart pounding in her throat.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!” she yells. “Just leave me alone.”

A hand grabs her from below.

Robb is sitting up, his hand wrapped around her ankle and Sansa shivers as his head turns to stare at her. “What about it, child?” Robb asks. He doesn’t sound like himself. “Have you thought of my proposal yet?”

“No,” she gasps, because it is what she always says. 

“If that is your wish, child.”

“It is.”

Robb opens his mouth and screams. Sansa scrambles back, the sound shattering something deep within her and she tries to escape Robb’s grip, but it doesn’t do any good as Robb advances towards her.

Robb reaches out.

His touch burns and the ice spreads from her legs, up her arms to her fingers, up her collarbones. The ice burns. She chokes against it. She only has to wait, wait for the ice to spread, through her veins, freezing her blood just in time for the ice to reach her heart.

**

Sansa wakes screaming. She presses her hand against her chest, gasping as she sits up on the sofa. She fell asleep, she realizes. The clock said it was just past midday and Sansa shudders.

She had not dreamed the dream in almost 5 years and now twice in a day, but this dream had been so different. It was always Father hanging from the tree, never anyone else. Seeing Robb had changed so much Sansa felt the terror grip her heart tight and squeeze. She had gotten used to seeing Father hang. Seeing Robb had a whole new effect. Sansa wonders if that was the point, shaking herself free of that thought immediately. There was no point to her dreams. They were only dreams.

She rubs a hand over her face and shakes her head.

She should probably call her therapist and ask if he could move her up.

She should probably tell Will the dreams started again.

She should probably …

Her thoughts veer off. She doesn’t want to do either of that. She just wants to forget about it, hope they go away on their own again. They might, she thinks a little wryly, though she also knows that the chance of that is almost infinitesimally small.

Her phone rings.

Sansa reaches over the sofa and squints at the unknown number. She doesn’t get called often, rarely even, and almost never from unknown numbers. All the Tyrells know it is better to send her a text, and so does her own family. Calling is reserved for Bran’s treatment center and handymen, but she has those saved to her phone.

“Sansa Tyrell speaking. Who is this?”

“Sansa Tyrell? Not Sansa Stark?” the voice asks, sounding confused. “I am sorry, we must have-“

“I married,” Sansa cuts the man off. She married 7 years ago. “Who is this?”

“I am sorry, Mrs Tyrell. This is Allistor Thorne from the Night’s Watch, we are the-“

Sansa sighs. “I know what the Night’s Watch is, Mr Thorne.”

The man coughs. “Of course. I call because according to our records you are one of the heirs to a mansion in Winter Town, also known as Winterfell.” Sansa’s stomach falls. “There was a disturbance at Winterfell last night and it is customary to inform the heir of the disturbance.”

“What kind of disturbance?” Sansa asks, curtly.

“There was a suicide on the premises.”

Sansa isn’t sure if the world is really spinning or if the quick pace of her heart is just making her feel lightheaded. “Pardon me?”

“There was a suicide on the premises, Mrs Tyrell. We already called the appropriate authorities, but by law we must inform-“

There is loud beeping in her ears. Sansa reaches up, almost expecting her fingers to come away bloody, but there is nothing there. She takes her phone away and, oh, there is another call incoming.

“Consider me informed,” Sansa tells Mr Thorne as she stares at Jon’s face on her screen. “I have another call on the line. I will make sure my family’s proprietors get in contact with you.”

“Alrigh-“

Sansa cuts him off and accepts Jon’s call with shaking fingers. Dread is rising in her stomach and she can barely speak. “Jon.”

“Sansa.” Jon sounds weary, silent, tired. “Sansa, there was-“

Sansa wants to finish his sentence for him, but she is pretty sure “Sansa, there was a suicide at Winterfell” is not what Jon wants to tell her. He knows better than that. Of all of them, Sansa always wanted the least to do with Winterfell. Of all of them, Jon had always understood that best.

“Sansa, Robb went to Winterfell last night,” Jon says. He trails off.

Oh.

“Robb went to Winterfell and killed himself,” Sansa finishes for Jon.

There is only silence on the line.

Sansa stands up, walks over to the kitchen and fills the kettle. She stands above the kettle, waiting to watch the water boil, her phone still pressed to her ear, and vomits. She distantly hears Jon call for her as she stares at the contents of her lunch covering her socks.

“I am sorry, Jon. I think, um,” she trails off, not able to think. The words are failing her.

Jon’s voice is gentle as he answers, but Sansa does not hear a word he says. She apologizes and hangs up.

Robb is dead. Robb killed himself at Winterfell and Sansa saw him in her dream after he did. Or did he kill himself before her first dream, Sansa wonders stupidly. But Robb wouldn’t kill himself. He is married. He has a baby on the way. Robb wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill himself now. Would he?

Sansa presses Will’s name urgently. It goes to voicemail. She calls again. It goes to voicemail. It goes to voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail. “Will, call me back. Now.” She texts him the same as she calls Margaery, who answers after two rings.

“Sansa, darling! What a sur-“

“Where is Willas?”

“At work?” Margaery sounds wary. “Is something wrong, Sansa?”

“Call him. He needs to come home.”

“Did something happen to the girls?” Margaery asks, her voice suddenly sharply alert. Sansa can hear something in the background, but she can’t make it out enough. “Sansa, I need you to answer me, did something happ-“

“No.” Sansa snaps. “I am, I,”

She does not know how to say the words.

“I need Will to come home.”

“He will be right there, darling,” Margaery says sweetly. “Can you stay on the line with me?”

Sansa looks over at the kitchen entrance where Lissa stands, looking unsure of herself. Sansa wonders how she looks if Lissa is so frightened. “Hey baby,” Sansa says.

Lissa still looks unsure and Sansa drops to her knees, into a pool of vomit and beckons her closer. “Lissy, baby, come here.”

“Why do you smell like sick?” Lissa asks.

“You smell like what? Sansa, what is happening?”

Ah, Sansa looks down at the phone in her hand. She forgot about Margaery on the line. “Lissa, baby, do you want to speak with Aunt Margaery?”

Lissa takes the phone from her and nods at something Margaery says. Sansa watches her baby speak. A small smile spreads over her face, making her look less like Arya, who had rarely smiled even at that age. Or maybe Arya had smiled once, but those memories had been overshadowed by the thousands of other memories of unhappy Arya who had not been able to smile at anything after Father died.

Sansa takes one of the cloths and starts wiping up her vomit from the floor. She has to tell Arya what happened, she thinks. Would Arya cry? Sansa hadn’t cried yet. Robb was dead and Sansa hadn’t cried yet. She hadn’t told anyone yet, because telling anyone would make it real.

She stops wiping at the floor and looks at Lissa, who is still chatting with Margaery. “Baby, can I speak with Margaery now? You can go watch some TV.”

Lissa lights up, happily shoving the phone back in Sansa’s hands and running off to the master bedroom.

“Sansa?” Margaery’s voice is still worried. “Grandmama reached Willas. He is on his way home. What is wrong?”

“My brother is dead,” Sansa says simply. She eyes the rag of spit in her hands, wondering if she should just throw it out or if she should try and wash it. “I need to,” she trails off.

“I am so sorry, my dear,” Margaery says, gently. “What happened?”

Sansa hums. “He went back to Winterfell and killed himself, just like Daddy did.” She decides to throw the rag away. It stunk anyway. “My socks are wet. I think I threw up on them. Rickon did that once, when he was a baby. I was so angry at him. They were new and pink and so pretty and he just puked on them.”

“I am sure he didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t want to tell Rickon,” Sansa admits. Then she remembers. “I don’t think I will have to. Jon knew so he’ll be the one to tell Rick but isn’t that horrible. Rickon was the only one of us who didn’t have to deal with those fucking memories, and now Robb killed himself on Rickon’s fucking birthday? I was so jealous of him, always so jealous.”

“I am so sorry for your loss, Sansa.”

“Who kills themselves on their brother’s birthday?” Sansa asks. “Who fucking does that?”

“I am sorry, Sansa.”

She wanders over to her laptop and pulls up a travel site. “I never wanted to go back.” She searches for the next available flight and swallows as her finger hovers over the booking-confirmation. “I guess Robb never fucking cared about what we wanted. I got to go now, Margaery.”

“Okay, Sansa,” Margaery says quietly.

Sansa stares at the booking confirmation for too long, unsure of what to do next. Then she dials Arya.

“Are you coming?” Arya asks as soon as she picks up.

“I am landing tomorrow morning at 9. You?”

“Yeah.” Arya sighs heavily. “Landing around noon. It was the earliest flight I could find.”

Silence hangs between them.

“Text me your details. I’ll see if I can come pick you up,” Sansa says finally.

Arya’s hesitation is audible over the line. “I am… Sansa.”

“I know.” Sansa looks up as Willas enters their apartment, looking a little wild and frazzled. He spots her almost immediately and exhales a breath of relief. “Arya. Will just came home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hangs up on Arya and lets Willas hug her. Margaery must have told him because he doesn’t ask what happened, or how she is feeling. He only holds her and she clings back. “I am flying up tomorrow. For the funeral,” she says, finally.

Willas nods against her head. “Do you want me to come up with you?”

Sansa just shakes her head. “Please don’t. I just want to get this over with.”

“I am sorry,” Willas says. He hugs her tighter and Sansa sighs, closing her eyes, and sinks into her husbands embrace.

*

Uncle Edmure has not changed since the day he picked them up from Old Nan’s apartment over 15 years ago. His beard is still as ginger as ever and his hair is now more salt and pepper than auburn, but his solid frame and tight hug still reminds Sansa of the man he had been then.

“Niece,” he says, as they step away from each other. He isn’t smiling, neither is Sansa, and for a moment understanding passes between them.

Sansa tries to smile, she does, but her muscles won’t cooperate. “How is Rickon?” Uncle Edmure looks away. His jaw ticks and it tells Sansa everything she needed to know. “Okay.”

They take the shortest way through the airport, and Sansa smiles, despite herself, at the convertible Edmure pulls out of the parking space. Her uncle had not changed much even after moving to Winter’s Town to take custody of them all, and he had not changed in the 15 years since. Her mother had once said that Edmure was doomed to be an eternal bachelor, fluttering from man to man, until alcohol and lust would take him in his sleep. He had mostly stopped drinking once he got custody, but Sansa had gently told many men to leave over the years she had lived with him.

“How are Willas and the kids?” Edmure asks.

“Well.”

“That is good.” He looks over at her for a split second. “I am happy for you, Sans, I truly am.”

Sansa looks down at the clasped hands in her lap and swallows. “Thank you,” she says, earnestly. “Will is a good man. He loves me.”

“It does seem like it,” Edmure says. His expression is gentle. She knows he worried about her when she left the North as soon as she had been able to, but he had never stopped her, sending her the money she needed and giving her access to her trust fund. “I am happy for you. Someone in this family needed to find their happiness.”

Sansa swallows. It is on the tip of her tongue that Robb had been happy, married to Jeyne, but then again Robb had just killed himself so that point was absolutely mute. “I am happy, I swear it.”

Uncle Edmure looks at her for a moment and she knows he understands what she is saying, as he nods and then sighs deeply. “I wish,” he shakes his head, “Robb never talked to me. He was never a child like the rest of you.”

A few years ago, Sansa would have bristled at that, but now she knows that she had been a child when Father died. She had been a girl who pretended at being mature, but all that had shattered in the face of Father’s death. “Robb was a grown man. He could have asked for help when he needed it. The rest of us did.” Sansa winces at the bitter tone in her voice.

“Did you?” Edmure asks. “Get help, I mean?”

Sansa nods. “The Tyrell’s are big on mental health. Will’s grandmother is a trained psychiatrist and she urged me to go to a therapist. It really does help.”

“I am glad, Sansa.” A pause. “Have you told the Tyrells what happened?”

“Some of it.”

“It is rather hard to talk about, is it not?” Edmure asks.

She looks at him, sharply. He was not there. He had not seen Bran seize on the floor, or Mother losing her mind when she had found Daddy hanging from the staircase. He had only been there to clean up the mess, and Sansa loved him for it, but he had no right to talk about any of that night. “It is. Especially for people who weren’t there.”

“Sansa-“

“Sorry.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I am sorry, Eddie. I-“

“It’s fine,” Edmund interrupts her, easily. 

Sansa looks over at him and he looks back, steadily. “It is different as a parent, to look back at what happened. It changes everything. I get so angry at Father sometimes. How could he, how dare he kill himself? I thought after what happened, all of us would understand-“ she trails off and shakes her head. “I don’t understand why Robb did it. He seemed happy.”

Edmure is quiet for far too long. “Robb was hurting,” he admits finally. “He refused to talk to me about it and I had hoped he spoke with Jeyne or one of you, but I could see it this past year. There was something eating at him, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.” Edmure shakes his head. “I should have pressed him. I should have made sure-“

“Robb was an adult,” Sansa says firmly. “It was his decision to go back to Winterfell, and it was his decision to-“

“-throw himself off the staircase.”

Sansa swallows. So that is how he did it. Was it on purpose, Sansa wonders, that Robb killed himself the same way their Father had? It must have been. Robb had gone back to Winterfell, a place they had all sworn they would never go back to, and thrown himself off the same staircase Father had thrown himself off of.

The car pulls into the driveway of the house Sansa had spent 4 years of her childhood in. It has not changed much, except that there are no more toys lying in the front yard. The door opens and a young man with flaming red curls steps out. Rickon. Sansa gapes at her baby brother, who has changed so much since she last saw him. He looks like Robb had at that age.

“He is a fine young man,” Edmure says, softly. “He is so clever.”

“You did well by him.”

“Aye.”

Sansa steps out of the car as soon as it parks, and approaches her brother, who by now is nearly 2 heads taller than her. He doesn’t smile as they stare at each other, and then Rickon moves forward to sweep her up in a hug. “I missed you.”

Sansa holds him, and they stand there in silence for a moment. “You’ve grown,” she says, pulling away. “My handsome baby brother.”

Rickon’s lip quirks. “You’ve gotten small,” he says. His voice is much deeper than it had been once and Sansa smiles, sadly. She had missed much of his childhood, leaving when he had only been 8. She doesn’t regret it, despite all that happened, but she does regret not knowing Rick as well as she could.

“I am nearly 6 feet tall, baby brother. I am considered a very tall woman,” she says, lightly. “You are simply a giant.”

Rickon hums. “Perhaps.”

“How about we go inside,” Edmure says. He carries Sansa’s suitcase past them and into the house and Sansa inhales, preparing herself to step into a house she hasn’t been in over 10 years now.

Uncle Edmure had uprooted his entire life, leaving his home in Riverrun and buying the house in Winter’s Town when they had all refused to go back to Winterfell. She had never felt at home in the house, despite Edmure doing his most to make it warm and welcoming to them all. For her, it had just been a reminder of all they had lost.

Sansa steps inside and wanders to the living room, looking at the pictures hung on the wall. There are pictures of them all there, some brand-new, some older and some from before Sansa had even been born. There are pictures of Sansa’s girls as well – Sansa’s favorite picture too, of Lissy standing above Joss’s crib only a few hours after her birth with a stunned expression on her face. There are no pictures of Lyanna though, none of Father either or Mother and Sansa wonders if Edmure will hang down those pictures with Robb as well.

Sansa wanders up to her old room, her room now too and has to laugh a little at the pink walls and the posters of Rhaegar Targaryen and Arianne Martell on the walls. It is very much a young girls room still. Edmure had not touched it and Sansa sits on the bed and looks around.

How much had changed in just over a decade.

“I thought about clearing your room out,” Edmure says, stepping up to her, “but I thought I would wait for you in case you wanted any of the things you left behind.”

She watches him take a seat beside her. “I didn’t leave because of any of you,” she says, because she thinks that Edmure deserves to know that. “It was never,” she trails off and shakes her head.

Edmure watches her steadily.

Sansa exhales and tries to gather her thoughts. She had spoken about this at length with her therapist. “Everywhere I looked here, I could see the ghosts of Mom and Daddy. Jon looked so much like Daddy and you only reminded me of Mama and I needed to go somewhere where no one knew who I was. I wouldn’t have-“ she trails off and finishes in a rush, “I never wanted to come back North. It was never, I don’t,”

Edmure places a hand over hers and his smile is warm and gentle. “We all know that. We all understand.”

Do they? “Do you?”

“Yes, Sansa. We all understand demons.”

“I never loved the North like Arya does, or like Jon does.”

“Do you love Highgarden?”

Sansa shrugs. “It is Will’s home.” She has never felt at home much anywhere, beyond the fact that she loves Will and her girls, and they feel at home at Highgarden. That is all that mattes really.

“And you love Will.”

“Aye.”

“I am glad.” Edmure wraps his arm around her shoulders, and Sansa leans on him. “Do you want to take some of your old things back?”

“Not particularly,” Sansa admits. “I have enough things now. And none that remind me of Winterfell.”

“Okay, sweet girl,” Edmure kisses her on the top of her head and Sansa smiles. She missed her uncle’s hugs. She truly did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya learns some bad news, goes back home and talks to her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: mentions of suicide, mentions of hanging, grief, mentions of drug use

Arya gives the 15-minute warning, suppressing a chuckle as she takes in some of the more panicked expressions. She takes her book back up and continues reading at the spot she had left off at.

Her phone buzzes on her desk. Arya winces, guiltily and quickly turns the sound off as she eyes the name on the Caller ID. Jon. She lets it go to voicemail, wondering why he is calling already. She already told him she would call Rickon at 6.

Jon calls again and she lets it go to voicemail again.

Then the text comes in.

Jon [11:48]: Call me when you get a moment. It’s important.

Jon [11.48]: I mean it Arya.

Arya frowns. That does not – She and Jon talk regularly and text most days as well, but Jon knows she is at school, that she can’t just call him. She wonders what is so important that Jon calls her in the middle of a school day.

Jon [11:49]: I am sorry for calling during a school day.

Arya puts her phone face down on the desk and tries not to worry too much. The remaining time of the exam passes too slowly. She knows that some of her kids have caught on, sending her worrying looks, but she tries to keep as calm as she can. When it is finally 12, she collects the exams and quickly shuts the door behind her students even as Alice Manderly tries to ask her something.

She dials Jon’s number, heart beating in her chest.

“Oh Arya, good,” Jon answers, sounding very absent-minded. “I am sorry for calling you during the day…”

“But-?”

“Arya, Robb’s dead.”

The words send a shock through her entire body, and Arya sits on her desk heavily. “What?” she breathes. She had feared it was something bad, but this? How could Robb be dead? “What happened?”

“Arya-“ Jon says softly.

“How did he die, Jon?” Arya asks. She needs to know.

There is a long pause on Jon’s end and with every passing second the pit in Arya’s stomach grows larger, swallowing all her thoughts and feelings. “He went back to Winterfell and killed himself.”

“Oh.”

Winterfell. Arya rubs over her face, hand shaking, and she imagines all the ways Robb may have died. They flash past her eyes and Winterfell stands proud in her minds eye as if she had never gone away.

Winterfell was her home for so long. It had been home for them all and Arya had loved it so much. She loves it more than all other places on earth – still – even after 15 years. She hadn’t been back in 15 years and she still could taste the pies Old Nan made, how the stones of the library felt beneath her fingertips and how it sounded when they all thundered down the big staircase before dinner. 

“Arya?” Jon’s voice brings her back to the present.

Winterfell. Why would Robb have gone there?

“Why would Robb go there?” Arya asks, voice breathy and weak even to her own ears. She licks her lip, tasting salt. Oh, she is crying. “Why would he go back? We swore we would not go back.”

Jon doesn’t speak, though she can hear him breathing. “I don’t know, Arya. I just got the call myself. The police officer in charge of the case knows me, which is why he called me instead of Uncle Edmure.”

“Case?” Arya asks. “You said he killed himself.”

“It is routine to investigate all deaths, but at the moment everything points towards a suicide.” Jon sounds clinical as he says it, as though this weren’t their brother they are talking about. “But it was a suicide, Arya.”

“Why would Robb kill himself?”

“I don’t know.”

“But-“

There is a silence that Arya does not know how to fill. Robb would not kill himself. He, of all people, knew what that would do to a family. He and Jeyne were _expecting_. Why would he kill himself? He just wouldn’t, he couldn’t do that to them again.

“You should come home for a while,” Jon suggests gently. “Mormont said he’d release the body to us-“ Jon trails off and as Arya tries to reconcile Robb being ‘the body’, he continues, “I mean Robb will be released to us tomorrow. We can hold the funeral in a few days.”

“The body-“ Arya says, chuckling despite herself. “Oh gods.”

Jon sighs. “I am sorry, Arya. I didn’t … think.”

“No, no. It’s fine. Robb killed himself. That is what he is now. The body.” Arya laughs again, though she sounds hysterical even to her own ears. “Stranger save us.”

Jon doesn’t speak. “Arya, I need to call Sansa. Edmure will tell Rick, but-“

“Rickon. Fuck.”

Arya had completely forgotten about Rickon. It was his birthday. Did Robb kill himself on Rickon’s birthday? She echoes the question to Jon, who just sighs. “I don’t know, Arya. Mormont did not tell me much himself. I don’t think they know quite that much yet.”

“Fuck,” Arya breathes. “I’ll book a flight. I’ll try to be there today.”

“I will stay with Edmure and Rickon tonight,” Jon promised, “In case there is no flight.”

“Okay.” Arya exhales and scrubs her face with one hand. “Stranger save us. Thank you, Jon.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

Arya hangs up first and just sits there in her empty, quiet classroom for a long moment. She needs a few moments just to digest all of that. Fuck.

She looks for flights then. There is no flight from White Harbor to Winter’s Town that day, but there is an early one tomorrow that gets in just before midday. She could just rent a car, but Arya isn’t sure she could make the 5-hour drive. She books the flight instead and sends Jon a message informing him of the plans as her phone rings in her hands.

It’s Sansa. Arya waits for a moment and with a heavy heart picks up. “Are you coming?” Arya asks, immediately. It is not a sure thing with Sansa, who had left Winterfell at 18 and never looked back. Gods even when Uncle Ben died Sansa had refused to come to the funeral.

“I am landing tomorrow morning at 9. You?” Sansa sounds absent.

“Yeah.” Arya shakes her head and decides to reach out with an olive branch, sighing. “Landing around noon. It was the earliest flight I could find.”

Arya taps her desk, waiting for Sansa to respond. “Text me your details. I’ll see if I can come pick you up,” Sansa says finally.

Arya wants to say something, anything, but it is like her mind is blank. “I am…” Gods, what is she? Sad? Upset? Both of those, but there is something else bubbling in her chest. “Sansa.”

“I know.” Sansa says, quietly. Then a pause and: “Arya. Will just came home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The ending is so abrupt it leaves Arya staring at her phone, the dial tone loud in her ears. Arya closes her eyes, trying not to get angry at Sansa. Did she maybe think about the fact that Arya may need someone to talk to right now?

She wipes away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and tries to calm her rapidly beating heart, before gathering her things and making her way to the Principal’s office quickly. Mr Cassel looks up as she steps into the room, smiling as he does so.

“I need a week off,” Arya says quickly, not beating around the bush.

Mr Cassel blinks. “Pardon me?”

“I will need the next week off,” Arya repeats herself. “My brother has died and I need to go to his funeral. I need to go home.”

Of course, say no more. I will find Substitute Teachers for your classes. I am sorry for your loss.”

She nods her head in acceptance of his condolences. “Apologies, I need to go.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Cassel says as he follows her out of the office. “Please call if you need more time off, Arya. We will be happy to grant it.”

“Thank you,” Arya says absently. “Goodbye, Mr Cassel.”

“Goodbye Arya,” Mr Cassel says as she walks away from him.

She makes her way out of the school quickly and ends up standing before her motorcycle apprehensively. Her hands are shaking nearly as bad as her legs. Deciding not to risk it, she makes her way down to the bus station and composes a text to Edmure as she waits.

Arya [12:31]: I am landing tomorrow just after noon. Can I stay at home?

Uncle E [12:31]: Of course. I’ll make your bed. Are you bringing Gendry?

Arya [12:31]: No. I’ll come alone.

Arya [12:31]: How is Rick?

Uncle E [12:32]: He is out with friends. He doesn’t know yet.

Arya [12:32]: oh

Arya [12:32]: let me know when you tell him

Arya [12:32]: ill call after

Uncle E [12:32]: I will

Uncle E [12:32]: how are you holding up?

Arya taps her phone on the table, again and again, waiting for that notification she has been waiting for all day, when Gendry comes home.

He stumbles over the shoes in the doorway. “Fucking hell Arya! We talked about this!” he shouts as Arya hears the sounds of him undressing and going into the bathroom to take a piss. The sounds of him washing his hands are so well-known to Arya. At least something about this day is normal.

He makes his way into the kitchen still drying his hands on his t-shirt, speaking to her: “Please Arya. I need you to put your shoes away. I really will kill myself one of these days.”

The phrasing makes Arya laugh, a ugly burst of laughter that is ripped from her chest. “Oh gods,” she whispers, still laughing, and she buries her head in her hands as she keeps laughing. This is not funny, Arya knows it, but she can’t stop, because Robb killed himself. He killed himself despite everything they went through after Daddy died. He just went and died.

She must sound off to Gendry as he comes to her side quickly, asking: “What is wrong?”

“Wrong,” Arya echoes, through her laughter. The word chokes in her mouth and she starts sobbing. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s all wrong.”

“Arya?” Gendry asks. “What happened?”

Arya can’t stop sobbing long enough to answer him. She presses the palms of her hands into her eyes, trying to stop herself from weeping. “Robb killed himself,” she gasps, sobbing. “Robb is dead. Oh gods, Robb is dead.”

Gendry makes soft shushing sounds that make her weep even harder. Gods, she hates crying so much. She screws her mouth shut and tries to calm herself. It takes long until she can even stop sobbing and she leans into Gendry’s warm, solid chest.

“What happened?” Gendry asks, softly.

She shrugs, or at least tries to in Gendry’s arm. “No idea. Jon called. I am flying up tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Gendry says. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Arya shakes her head. “I think I need to do this by myself.”

Gendry accepts it without a sound. “I could come up if you need me to later.”

“Okay.”

*

**_The Stark Curse: Robb Stark (31) commits suicide at family home._ **

Lord Robb Stark, son of the famed Stark family, died in the late hours of Tuesday night. According to sources close to the family, Lord Stark committed suicide in the family mansion, Winterfell. This is the second suicide of the Stark Patriarch at Winterfell Mansion, where former Lord Eddard Stark committed suicide just over 15 years ago.

The misfortune of the Stark family has been long recorded. As old Westerosi Royalty, Starks were once the Wardens of the North. After the abolition of the monarchy in Westeros nearly 3 centuries ago, the Stark family kept their status as Lords, but are no longer involved in politics.

In recent years, the Stark family has often been in the papers for the numerous tragedies that have befallen the latest generation of Starks. Over 40 years ago, Lady Lyarra Stark was killed in a motor vehicle accident that was later found to be the result of her husband’s excessive drinking. Lord Rickard Stark was convicted of manslaughter and later died in prison.

_[Click here: Rickard Stark: Convicted Murderer, Life in Prison!]_

_[Click here: Lord Rickard Stark dies in Prison at age 52]_

Their daughter, Lady Lyanna Stark, died 28 years ago in a car bomb in the plains of Essos, while working for the Westerosi Red Cross at only age 23. She left behind a 5-year-old son, who was adopted by her brother Lord Eddard Stark.

Lord Eddard Stark committed suicide at the family mansion 15 years ago, leaving behind 5 children and his wife, Lady Catelyn Tully. The circumstances of his death were never clear, with conflicting reports by his wife and his children. An inquiry into the matter was ordered by then Prime-Minister Robert Baratheon, but the inquiry was ended without the release of a report only a year later.

_[Click here: Inquiry into Stark death halted! Talk of Corruption abound!]_

_[Click here: Eddard Stark! Dead!]_

Lord Benjen Stark, General in the Army of Westeros, died 5 years ago in the plains of Essos, close to the place his sister had died. He was posthumously awarded with the Purple Heart Medal for Bravery.

_[Click here: 3 Westerosi dead in combat in Essos.]_

The Stark family has refused to comment and asks for their privacy to be respected in these difficult times. 

[King’s Landing, 23.09.299]

*

Sansa has not changed too much in the few years since they last saw each other in person. She still stands nearly 2 heads taller than Arya, lithe and thin. She barely looks like herself though, dressed in simple jeans and with a bare face and pinched expression. She is not currently the pretty, preppy girl who Arya had always resented for always looking so put together.

Arya approaches her sister and they nod at each other, not exchanging a word as they make their way through the airport. Sansa slips her hand into Arya’s though and they cling to each other in a gesture of comfort that Arya appreciates more than she would have guessed.

Her flight from White Harbor had been short, thankfully, as Arya had not been able to sleep a wink last night. She had woken Gendry eventually, by twisting and turning in their bed, and they had sat on the couch together, drinking coffee while Arya shared stories about their family, of Winterfell and of Robb. Gendry had been too kind to pretend like he hadn’t heard most of the sordid stories before, but he had listened to her speak about it all for the first time since she was a child.

Thinking and talking about it had made so many memories came back Arya had well forgotten and she had probably forgotten them for a reason. She had not been able to stop imagining Dad dying over and over again for years after Winterfell, but now she was imagining Robb’s death instead.

Sansa pulls up to a small car that Arya immediately recognizes as Edmure’s and she turns to Arya, wanting to say something. Arya waits for her to say something, but Sansa just makes a few aborted attempts before shaking her head and getting into the car.

It sinks a pit in Arya’s stomach. Arya and Sansa had always had little in common and little to say to each other, but Arya needs Sansa to talk to her now.

“Get in Arya.” Sansa says, the first words they have said to each other face-to-face in 3 years.

“Okay,” Arya says, quietly. She gets into the passage seat and they fall in silence again as Sansa drives through the triste fall rain through Winter Town to Edmure’s house.

*

Uncle Edmure waits at the porch, arms crossed as he squints out into the rain. Arya barely waits until the car stops before she runs towards him and wraps her arms around his thick waist. “My dear girl,” Edmure whispers, running a hand over her head. He holds her and speaks to Sansa over her head. “All went well?”

“Yeah,” Sansa says, quietly. “I’ll go make us some lunch, alright?”

Edmure shifts. “I already did, Sansa. Just come inside. Rick is waiting.”

Arya looks up and wipes the tears that gather in her eyes away as she does. “How is he?”

Edmure looks at her and shrugs. “About as well as yesterday.”

So very bad, Arya who had been the brunt of Rickons grief and anger yesterday translates. “Okay.”

“It’ll be okay,” Edmure promises, as he gently pushes her towards the house, in after Sansa. They make their way to the dining room in quiet.

Arya looks around and tries not to feel at home in this house, even after all these years. She loves this house, more than Winterfell, more than her apartment in White Harbour. It is the house she spent her most difficult years in, under Edmure’s watchful eyes. He had done right by her, well enough that Arya was fine despite Winterfell and all the fucking shit that had happened 15 years ago.

Sansa quickly disappears into the kitchen and Arya looks after her.

“Let her be,” Edmure advises her softly. “She is hit hard by this, you know.”

Arya scowls. “I am too.”

Edmure sighs and shakes his head. “Sansa is-“

_Damaged_ , Arya finishes to herself.

“Where are your serving plates?” Sansa shouts from the kitchen.

Edmure snorts, but he pats Arya on the shoulder and disappears into the kitchen. Arya hears him say: “I don’t have serving plates, Sansa. We just use plates.”

Arya doesn’t follow them, instead making her way to the living room. Rickon sits on the couch, cutting a small forlorn figure. She freezes as she sees him there but makes her way to his side regardless of the words spoken yesterday. “Rickon.”

His head snaps towards her and Arya’s heart breaks at the sight of his tears. He bites at his lower lip and tears spill down his cheeks. “Arya,” Rickon breathes. He looks down at his lap, smoothing the dark legs of his trousers, and his hands are shaking.

“Hey,” Arya says softly. She steps up to his side and puts a hand on his shoulder.

Rickon sniffs, his shoulder shaking beneath Arya’s hand. There is a beat and then he wraps both arms around Arya’s waist and buries his head in her stomach.

Oh Rickon, Arya thinks sadly, he has been the least touched with grief of all of them until now. He had been 4 when they left Winterfell. 4. He had once told Arya that he didn’t even remember Dad’s face, or his voice, or the warm smiles that had always lit up Arya’s day.

Rickon holds her tight and Arya strokes her fingers through his curls as tears burn in her eyes. She looks up to the ceiling and blinks away the tears. There is a mark on the ceiling, just a little one and Arya only sees it because she was there when Bran and her broke out the champagne Sansa had been saving for her graduation in the middle of the night.

“I spent 50 dollars on that!” Sansa had shrieked when she found them, giggly and tipsy at 4 am, making a ruckus that must have awoken the entire house. Arya can’t remember if Edmure had caught them, but she remembers the expression on Sansa’s face as she had.

It had been Bran’s idea back then too, sneaking into her room at a little past midnight with a grin on his face. She hadn’t even thought twice about saying no.

“You know what I can’t get out of my head?” Bran had asked her after they drank nearly all of the bottle. He had shifted on the sofa so that he was staring at her, dark eyes darker in the pale light of the three candles they had lit. “We had that garden, right? Why did Dad not just kill himself in the garden? Why did he do it where we all could see? He knew I used to go to the library when I couldn’t sleep. It’s like he wanted me to see.”

Arya tears her eyes away from that stupid mark on the ceiling and looks to where Edmure stands in the doorway, a sad smile on his face. He spots her looking at him and shrugs a little, mouthing “Lunch”.

Arya pets Rickon’s hair again and then carefully runs a hand down his back. “Do you want some lunch?” she asks.

Rickon looks up and over at Edmure, wiping at the tears on his face. “Yeah,” he says, his voice breaking on the word. Arya steps back as he stands, suddenly no longer the taller one.

They make their way to the dining room where Sansa already sits at the table, staring blankly at the plate in front of her. Rickon takes a seat beside her, while Edmure and Arya seat themselves at the other side of the table.

Lunch is quiet. Arya keeps bracing herself for Edmure to speak like he clearly wants to several times, but he thankfully thinks the better of it. Rickon keeps crying, tears just rolling down his cheeks and Arya has no idea what to say to him. Sansa, well Sansa just seems checked out.

And Arya? Arya, she feels like there is a dark pit in her stomach going to swallow her whole.

Sansa’s phone rings breaking the silence and Sansa looks at the caller ID and she looks at them for a moment and quirks a polite smile. “Excuse me,” she says before she leaves the table. Arya hears her say: “Hey Will,” before the door shuts and her words aren’t audible anymore.

Rickon is the next to leave. He just stands up and steps away, without even a word of apology or goodbye and Arya frowns at him and goes to go after him, but Edmure catches her hand and shakes his head.

“Leave him be,” Edmure says. “He isn’t doing so well.”

“Who is?” Arya asks, bitterly. “Who of us is?”

Edmure doesn’t flinch, only nodding his acceptance. “I know.”

“What happened?” The words hang in the room for a moment, then Arya amends: “To Robb, I mean? You must have spoken to him recently. Why would he?” She exhales heavily. She just needs to know. She needs to know what drove Robb to kill himself. Of all of them, she had expected she would attend Bran’s funeral next, not Robbs.

“I don’t know, honey. The police were not able to tell me much, expect that they found him at the Grand Staircase.”

Arya shakes her head. “What about Jeyne? What has she said?”

“She is-“ Edmure pauses and shakes his head. “Jeyne is not doing well. Not well at all. I did not want to burden her unduly.”

“She is pregnant.” Arya can’t believe it. Robb would not. “He wouldn’t kill himself. He just wouldn’t. He knows what that does to-“ family, she thinks in her head, but she can’t get the words out over the sob.

Damn it, Arya thinks angrily, wiping at the tears. She is crying. Again. She has spent so much of the past 24 hours crying, she must be well on her way towards dehydrated. She doesn’t want to keep crying.

“Arya…” Edmure says quietly, slowly and gently. “He did. He killed himself. There was no sign of foul play.”

“How would you know that?” Arya asks. “For sure?”

There is just no way that Robb, who had held her in that gods forsaken hotel letting her cry herself to sleep on his shoulder, would kill himself. Maybe there had been someone else at Winterfell, a robber who had seen Robb there and decided to push him down the staircase. Maybe Robb had been a hero, going back to Winterfell so they could all go back and he had slipped in the puddle of water that had gathered at the top of the stairs from the leak in the roof. Maybe Robb had left his car, went to Winterfell and hung himself from the stairs.

Maybe he had gone from reminding her to call Rick on his birthday to his car, driving all the way from Winter’s Town to Winterfell. Maybe he had seen the house, with its tall stone tower and large chimney and just knew he had to go back inside. Maybe he had, like her, just wanted to see it one last time, but when he got inside there had been something that made him think that this was his end. Maybe he had gone inside and seen Mommy and Daddy again, with their warm hugs and soft smiles as they held him as he –

Arya stands, shaking her head to get away from her imagination. She had imagined what had happened to Daddy for years, listening to Bran tell her again and again and again what he remembered. She had imagined him going into the shed, getting the rope and –

“I am sorry, Edmure. I think I need to go,” she says and leaves the house.

*

The tombstone has not changed in the five months since Arya came here last. Someone recently visited, there are fresh flowers underneath Daddy’s name. She looks over the names – Brandon Stark (239 – 280), Eddard Stark (241 – 284), Benjen Stark (251 – 293), Lyanna Stark (249 – 275) – and wonders not for the first time if the press had a point about the curse of the Stark family.

“Hey Daddy,” Arya begins. “I am not sure if someone told you yet, but Robbie died.” She can’t continue and lets the silence hang in the cold air. “He went home, to Winterfell and then he killed himself. Just like you did. I would ask him why, but I guess I can ask you and get just as little answers.”

The wind picks up and Arya shivers against the cold.

“I thought I would understand one day, or at least maybe understand it more, but honestly Daddy, the more time goes on the less I understand it. We were happy, weren’t we? You and Mama, all of us. Were we not a happy family?”

“Of course, we were happy.”

For a moment Arya thinks Daddy responded. As she turns around to see Bran come up the small cobble way, her heartbeat sinks back into a more manageable pace and she can’t help but feel just somewhat disappointed.

He does not look too bad. He leans on his crutches heavily and he looks exhausted, but he also looks well fed and his hair looks like it has been cut recently. He looks so much better than he had almost seven months ago, when Arya had found him in the den, strung out and weak as a baby. Maybe, for once, the treatment had worked, Arya thinks hopefully.

“Brannie.”

“Arya.”

“Are you well?”

Bran’s answering smile is biting. Arya wants to retract the question immediately. How well were any of them? How well could any of them be?

“I am …” he searches for a proper word in vain, shaking his head instead. “It’s okay. You?”

“Same.”

“Expect you are shouting at Dad’s grave.”

“Yeah,” Arya says with a small laugh. “I am shouting at Dad’s grave because I can’t currently shout at Robb.”

Bran looks at her, a dark and heavy look that makes Arya shiver. “You may one day,” he says, which is not ominous at all. “Let’s go sit on that bench.”

Arya agrees, immediately, going forward to offer Bran her support. He doesn’t take it, carefully and slowly making his way down the path to the bench.

She is reminded, stupidly, of the day he had been released from the hospital. After. Arya had gone with Edmure and Robb to pick him up, while Jon and Sansa had stayed at the hotel with Rickon. Bran had been so small in the wheelchair, having lost so much weight in the month of his coma and more in the weeks where he could not deal with the fact he would never be able to use his legs again.

He had shouted at them in the parking lot, screaming at them to let him do it on his own because he was neither a baby nor an invalid and all Arya had been able to think about was how little this thin boy resembled her happy brother who loved to explore with her.

She had been soft on him, and it had been her duty as an elder sister to take care of him, and she had failed whole heartedly at that.

“What are you thinking about?” Bran asks.

“You, shouting at Robb and me in the parking lot,” Arya says honestly.

Bran hums and nods. “I remember that,” he says with a shake of his head. “I also remember you running away crying and Uncle E running after you.”

“Well I couldn’t allow my pain in the ass baby brother to take all the attention for himself,” Arya says, teasingly.

Bran throws her a faux-serious look but grins a moment after. “You mean that being a paraplegic and seeing your father die was not reason enough to monopolize everyone’s attention for a while.”

Arya tries not to flinch and is fairly certain she fails. “Bran-“

He only laughs and puts a hand on her knee. “I know Arya. You didn’t mean it like that.”

Arya isn’t sure that she didn’t, because of course Bran deserved attention from Edmure and Jon and Robb after everything that happened at Winterfell, but Arya also remembers how she felt back then.

There had been days she had left school alone, went home alone and made her own dinner, all alone, because someone had to be at Bran’s bedside, at Mama’s bedside, at Rickon’s kindergarten or whatever dozens of other shitty things had come up during those dreadful months.

She had been 12 and been all alone in a time where she had needed not just someone, but a parent, or a guardian or at the very least family who could hold her and love her.

“How is your work?” Bran asks. “Are the kids still pains in your bum?”

Arya laughs at the description. “Sure, in a way, but I love it. I love the work.”

“I am glad.”

Arya eyes her little brother, who smiles at her. “And you?” she asks him. “Have you thought about going back to school next semester? You have been sober for a while, haven’t you?”

Bran shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits. “I have thought about it, but I am not sure If I am ready, or if the college would take me back.”

Arya hums. She isn’t certain the Winters Town college would take him back either, not after what Bran did. “I could call in a favor from Syrio if you want. The Eyrie may not be as prestigious a university as Winter’s Town, but I could get you in.”

“I am not sure I should leave Winter’s Town right now.”

Arya looks at him and frowns. “For Jeyne? Or for Rickon?”

“Rick,” Bran says. “He was recruited by Northern, you know.”

Arya bites at her lip. She knows that, but that is barely a good enough reason for Bran to stay here, not now when Robb killed himself too. “I know, he told me. But Rickon wouldn’t want you to put your life on hold still just to stay in the North with him.”

“I am not going south,” Bran says sharply. “I am not leaving the North, Arya. I am not like Sansa; I understand that we Starks belong in the North. We belong here like the ice does. I tried going south and you remember how that went.”

She does.

She mostly remembers Bran appearing at her apartment, high as a kite, and him shitting himself in her shower coming down from it. She had hidden him in her apartment for a week, not telling anyone where he was, even as Sansa called hundreds of times, more hysterical with each phone call as she tried to find Bran. She had told him it was the last time then and she had meant it, but then she had come to Winters Town when Edmure called saying he had not seen Bran in a week and she had found him an inch away from an OD in the den.

“Going to school in the Eyrie is not the same as a rehab clinic in Highgarden, Bran, and you know it,” Arya says quietly. “Besides, you are sober now. Going back to a structured life is a big part of sticking to sobriety.”

She is well aware that she sounds like those horrible pamphlets she had hated as a teenager, being caught drunk at school for the third time, but now as a responsible adult, she understood where her teachers had been coming from.

“I know,” Bran says, fidgeting with the crutches in his hands. “When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow,” Arya tells him. “Sansa is here. Do you want to come for dinner?”

Bran’s head snaps over to Arya so quickly her own neck aches with sympathy. “Sansa came home?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

“Flew up today.”

“Gods, if I knew all I needed to do off myself to get Sansa to fly back up here, I would have done that a long time ago,” Bran says, lightly.

“BRAN!” Arya swats him on the arm, horrified and amused despite herself. “Stranger, Bran, that isn’t fucking funny!”

“Come on, it kind of is.” Bran bumps his shoulder into hers, a small smile on his lips. “Just a little bit.”

“A little,” Arya admits. “Just a little though.”

“I’ll take that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please R&R :)


	3. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon picks up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: mentions of suicide, mentions of depression.

He calls Edmure first, after hanging up, keeping the information short succinct and to the point. Edmure only sounds defeated, but he makes Jon promise to still come to Rick’s birthday dinner that night.

Fuck, Robb, Jon thinks again as he hangs up on Edmure. Why would Robb kill himself on Rick’s birthday? How could he do that to Rick?

He tries to call Arya after, but it goes to voicemail twice. He texts her instead and puts his phone away after he does, trying to stop himself from crying. He digs the palm of his hands into the balls of his eyes, ignoring the burn of it as he curses Robb in his head.

They had just gone out for drinks on Friday. What on Planetos had changed between Friday and today? Robb had seemed fine, well enough and so excited about the baby that even as Theon teased him for going soft and old and adult-y.

His phone rings.

Arya.

“Oh Arya, good,” Jon answers, then adds, because he knows Arya is working: “I am sorry for calling you during the day…”

Arya’s voice is so hesitant as she asks: “But-?”

“Arya, Robb’s dead.”

There is a sound of hitched air. “What? What happened?”

“Arya-“ Jon says, softly.

“How did he die, Jon?”

Should he tell her? She probably should know, but Jon wasn’t sure he could say it. He wasn’t sure he could even think it, that horrible stupid absurdly idiotic thing Robb did to all of them. “He went back to Winterfell and killed himself.”

“Oh.”

There is silence for so long, Jon tentatively asks: “Arya?”

A sob comes through and then, “Why would Robb go there? Why would he go back? We swore we would not go back.”

Jon has no idea. “I don’t know, Arya. I just got the call myself. The police officer in charge of the case knows me, which is why he called me instead of Uncle Edmure.”

“Case?” Arya asks. “You said he killed himself.”

Jon sighs. He had hoped his sister would never need to know this: “It is routine to investigate all deaths, but at the moment everything points towards a suicide. But it was a suicide, Arya.”

“Why would Robb kill himself?”

“I don’t know.”

“But-“

Jon waits for her to speak, but she doesn’t. He has not had much longer than Arya to get to terms with Robb’s death, but in that moment he only feels the need to protect his cousin. “You should come home for a while,” he suggests. “Mormont said he’d release the body to us-“

Just the words make Jon shudder. “I mean, Robb will be released to us tomorrow. We can hold the funeral in a few days.”

“The body-“ Arya echoes, sounding hysterical. “Oh gods.”

Jon sighs. “I am sorry, Arya. I didn’t … think.”

“No, no. It’s fine. Robb killed himself. That is what he is now. The body. Stranger save us.” She sounds hysterical to Jon.

“Arya, I need to call Sansa. Edmure will tell Rick, but-“

“Rickon. Fuck.” Arya laughs again, and then she asks, sounding so young. “Why would Robb kill himself on Rickon’s birthday?”

“I don’t know, Arya. Mormont did not tell me much himself. I don’t think they know quite that much yet.”

“Fuck,” Arya breathes. “I’ll book a flight. I’ll try to be there today.”

That sounds good to Jon, but he doubts she’ll find a flight up from White Harbour that will still leave today. “I will stay with Edmure and Rickon tonight. In case there is no flight.” So you don’t have to worry, he adds in his head. 

“Okay.” Arya says softly. She exhales heavily on the line and adds, “Stranger save us. Thank you, Jon.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The line beeps in Jon’s ear as Arya hangs up and he exhales, shakily, scrubbing a hand over his face. It’ll be fine, Jon tells himself, but he needs to call Sansa.

He doesn’t want to. Arya and him, they are friends before they are cousins who grew up together. Jon loves Arya with all his heart, and they speak several times a month. Sansa, Sansa is a whole other story.

Sansa left the moment she could leave, and Jon had been so glad for her. He had been the one to see Cat’s darling child wither away in front of all of their eyes, growing gaunt and tired, and Jon had also been the one Sansa had called at King’s Landing when she had ended up in the hospital. Even then, bruised and just a little more broken, she had been so much better than she had been at Winter’s Town. It had been the moment Jon had known that Sansa had always known herself so much better than any of them.

He dials her number and waits.

Her voice is strained and tired as she says, “Jon”, and he knows that she knows.

“Sansa. Sansa, there was-“ He can’t say it like that, so he starts again, “Sansa, Robb went to Winterfell last night,” but that is not right either.

“Robb went to Winterfell and killed himself,” Sansa says for him.

She knows and Jon knew that she knew before and how does she already know? 

There is a moment on the call where Jon listens to her vomit, ugly retching echoing through the line, and then Sansa says, voice absent, “I am sorry, Jon. I think, um.”

“Yeah, Sansa. I know. It’s fine-“

“I need to go,” Sansa says, “I am sorry, bye.”

“Yeah Sansa, it is fine,” Jon says to the beep of the dial tone and he shakes his head at the ceiling as if his apartment had any part of any of this shit.

“Fuck,” Jon breathes and then he hits the table with his open palm, shouting. “FUCK! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. FUCK YOU ROBB!”

His voice breaks on the last word and that is it. He makes himself walk to the bathroom and undresses, stepping into the shower turning the water as cold as it goes. It does not do much but chill him to the bone, but when he steps out, scrubs himself dry and puts on a new set of clothes, he feels marginally more ready to face the world.

*

Jon [13:12]: ill come over later. Need to do something else first

Edmure Tully [13:23]: That is fine. I have not told Rickon yet; he is out with friends. I will write if I do. – ET

Jon [13:24]: you can wait for me if you want to

Edmure Tully [13:24]: I don’t know yet – ET

Edmure [13:24]: What do you have to do? – ET

Jon quickly writes him and then pockets his phone and gets out of the car. He knows that one of the women have seen him, so there is no use in dallying further. He rings the doorbell and it does not take long before Elenya Westerling opens.

“Jon, right?” she says, looking much more adult than she had at Robb and Jeyne’s wedding. She must be 24 or 25 by now, he reckons.

“Yeah, I am Jon. Can I come in? See Jeyne?” Jon asks.

Elenya looks back into the house and nods. “She is –“ she trails off and then lamely finishes, “not well. Momma is here too.”

Jon manages not to grimace, because Sybille Westerling hated Robb and hates their entire family. Instead, he steps inside and follows Elenya back into the living room. He swallows as he walks past the pictures of Jeyne and Robb at their wedding, of Robb and Rickon at graduation, of Robb and Sansa, Robb and Arya, Robb and Jon, Robb with all of them and none of the pictures make Jon think that this is a man who would kill himself soon.

“Jeanie?” Elenya says, sweetly. “Jon is here.”

Jeyne looks shattered, sitting on the couch with a handkerchief in her hands and looking half her size, even though her belly takes up more space than Jon remembered. Then again, he hadn’t seen her in almost 2 weeks. She looks up and hiccups as she tries to speak.

“Jeyne,” Jon says softly, coming to sit on the Ottoman opposite of her. He takes one of her hands in his. “I am … It is … Robb,” he trails off and finally just says, “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Jeyne sobs, her face crumpling and Jon looks on helplessly as she sobs.

“I wanted to let you know that Edmure and I will be taking care of everything. Funeral, his part of the trust, everything – we will be taking care of everything. You don’t need to do anything but keep yourself and the little lad safe.” Jon reaches forward to push a strand of her hair behind her ear and tries a smile on her. “We are here for you in whatever you need. You are a Stark now, Jeyne, and Starks take good care of their own.”

Jeyne sobs, reaching forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders. She weeps into his neck and Jon tries not to cry himself as he holds Robb’s wife in his arms.

There is a cough behind them. Sybille Westerling makes a small sound as she steps up. “Jeyne, do pull yourself together.”

“Mother!” Elenya admonishes her, but Jeyne still pulls away, wiping her tears away.

“Thank you, Jon,” Jeyne says weakly. She tries to speak, but then she just shakes her head and looks away.

“Did Robb say anything to you?” Sybille Westerling asks. “Has he been depressed recently?”

“Mother!” Elenya says, again.

Jon looks at her. “He did not say anything to me. He was visiting a therapist, but it seemed to be going well.”

“A therapist?” Sybille Westerling asks, cocking an eyebrow and sounding disapproving. “And why would he not tell his wife this?”

“I knew, mother,” Jeyne says, quietly. “Robb has been visiting a therapist since we left school.”

Jon tries not to be furious at Jeyne’s mother for harrumphing again and instead turns to Jeyne. “He loved you so much,” he says as if that can be a comfort in any way.

Jeyne holds her belly and Jon tries to remember how many weeks she has left. It can’t be many, but Jon can’t remember if it is 6 or 7. “I thought he did, but why would he…”

“Depression is not logical,” Jon tells her softly. “Depression does not make you make logical or clever decisions.”

“I know,” Jeyne says again, her voice breaking. “He was better. He was taking his meds, he was better. He said so.”

Jon looks up over at Jeyne’s sister helplessly as she starts crying again. Elenya wipes away tears from her own cheeks and hurries over to hold Jeyne, who turns to bury her face in her sister’s shoulder.

Did Robb know he would be doing this to them all when he killed himself? Did he know he would shatter them?

Jon checks his phone.

Edmure Tully [13:25]: Good luck with that. I do not envy you. – ET

Edmure Tully [13:32]: Just heard from Rickon, he will be home at 4 if you want to be here too. – ET

Edmure Tully [13:39]: It would be nice if you could come by. – ET

Jon sighs and stands. “Jeyne, I do not think we will be celebrating Rickon’s birthday tonight. If you want, you can still come around. I am sure Rickon would be very happy to see you. Arya is flying up tomorrow and I think Sansa will be coming as well. We’ll probably have a dinner tomorrow. I’ll write you the details, if you want to come by.”

Jeyne stands as well, swaying a little. “Not today,” she breathes. “I’ll call you.”

“My phone is always on,” Jon promises her and then steps close to press a kiss on Jeyne’s forehead like Uncle Eddard always did when Jon missed his mother. It had always helped him then. “Call me whenever.”

Jeyne squeezes his hand and pulls away. “I – thank you, Jon.”

“Of course,” he says, before leaving.

*

Jon [13:45]: Are you flying up?

Jon [13:45]: I understand if you won’t but write me the details if you do. I’ll pick you up.

Jon [14:57]: Edmure told me about your details. I’ll be at work tmr when you land but I’ll see you at Edmures

Sansa [18:01]: of course I had to come

Sansa [18:01]: is Rickon back home yet?

Jon [18:03]: yes

Jon [18:03]: does lissa know? I went to see Jeyne

Sansa [18:04]: and?

Sansa [18:04]: no I didn’t tell her. Will and I think it is better to tell her when I can say it without hurling all over the place

Jon [18:08]: Rickon stormed out on us and Edmure says to let him be but after everything ….

Jon [18:08]: and Jeyne is heartbroken As expected

Jon [18:09]: and Sybille Westerling is a horrid piece of work.

Sansa [18:17]: boarding now but take care of Rickon and Edmure please until tomorrow

Jon [18:19]: I will

*

He wakes the next morning to the beep of his alarm, feeling like death. He hadn’t come home until 2 am, hadn’t been able to fall asleep until 4. This day would be horrible. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and goes to ready himself for the day.

He walks to work and goes to Aemon’s office straight away.

His boss looks up from his own paperwork, an eyebrow raising as he sees Jon. “Stark, what can I do for you?”

Jon closes the door behind him and takes a seat across from Aemon. “I need the week off,” he says without much preamble. “My brother, um, cousin, killed himself. I need the week off.”

Aemon sets his glasses away, looking sad. “I am sorry, Stark. Was it the addict?”

Jon wishes it were, in a horrible and stupid and dreadful way, because if Bran killed himself, Jon would have understood why. If Bran had killed himself, lost himself to drugs, Jon would know why, but with Robb, he feels just as rudderless as he had years ago.

“It was Robb,” Jon tells him.

The man looks surprised, blinking twice and Jon suddenly remembers that Maester Aemon had met Robb. “I am sorry for your loss,” he says. “Sam can pick up your cases for the week. Take as much time as you or your family need.”

All the time his family needed would be forever, Jon thinks without much humor. He had told Aemon the whole sordid tale once, when Jon had just begun work and had blown up on a Father who had survived a failed suicide attempt. Aemon had pulled Jon away, leaving the man to weep in his office, as he had shouted at Jon to compose himself.

“Mental illness is not something you aid by shouting at people, Stark,” Aemon had said then, disapprovingly. “I know your family went through something bad when you were younger, but I cannot allow you to shout at the people we are trying to help. This man’s children will have to live with his attempt for the rest of their lives, and if anyone should empathize with that: Jon, I thought that would be you.”

He remembers the look on those kids faces and couldn’t help but imagine how Old Nan must have felt when she picked them up from the police station, because when Jon saw those kids he had nearly broken all over again.

“I will, thank you Aemon,” Jon says. “I can probably come back to work on Monday.”

“Take your time,” Aemon says. “We both know that this will not be an easy time for your family.”

Jon nods, sighs and shakes his head, looking down. “Thank you, sir,” he says finally, standing and then leaving the office. He makes quick work of telling Sam the general details of his cases, ignores the sad expression on Sam’s face as he does so, and is out of the office before it is even 10 am.

*

“In the kitchen!” Edmure shouts as Jon knocks heavily on the front door as he walks in. He is washing dishes alone and there is a heaviness to the set of Edmure’s shoulders that has not been there before. Jon feels abruptly bad for this man, who had given up his entire life to raise his sister’s children and had now lost one of them.

Jon starts drying dishes and tries to think of something to say that does not involve the words “Robb” or “death”. In the end, he just keeps quiet and they work on the dishes in silence. It, unfortunately, doesn’t take long until the entire kitchen is clean and Edmure turns to Jon with a heavy expression on his face.

“Where are the others?” Jon asks him, before Edmure can say something.

Edmure’s expression shutters. “Arya ran out after lunch. She is going to the graves; sent me a text just before you came. Rick is in his room and Sansa is in the gardens, I think.”

Jon swallows against the pressure in his chest. “I’ll go see Sansa, yeah?”

Edmure nods, a small wry smile on his face. “She is the very same,” he says with some sense of humor. “Only 15 years older.”

Jon winces. He remembers Sansa after Ned had died – icy and almost catatonic in her grief. “I’ll go see her,” he repeats, stepping out of the kitchen to make his way out of the house.

She is sitting beneath the heavy oak tree, on the wet ground without a care for her pale jeans. That is very unlike the Sansa he knows, he thinks just a little wryly, stepping up to her. She only looks up when his shadow falls on her and he winces at her expression. Edmure was not wrong. “Are you not worried about your jeans?” he asks, voice light.

She laughs. “I have two children, Jon. I am not afraid of a little dirt.”

He doesn’t say that she would have been once, because he thinks they both know that. He takes a seat beside her, grimacing as the knee he broke last December creaks a little in protest at that movement, and then grimacing again as he registers the wet, cold dirt seeping through his own jeans. “Ugh, why are you sitting here?” he asks her. Sansa runs her hand down the tree trunk and it hits Jon like a thousand bricks. “Oh. I-“

She looks at him and smiles. Gods, the smile alone breaks Jon’s heart. “Do you remember how angry he was when Arya put itching powder in his trunks?”

Jon smiles too. That had been funny; Robb jumping around the yard, sure some critter had found its way up his trunks. Arya had nearly fallen into the pool laughing at him and they had all – even Sansa – had laughed until their bellies hurt when Robb tackled Arya into the pool in vengeance. That summer, the only one before Robb had moved away for Uni, had been one of the only times Jon remembers hearing Sansa laugh.

He shifts, leaning one cheek on his knees so he can watch her better. She looks healthy and so much better than he was used to seeing her. Being married and being a mother suited her, he thinks. “How are Willas and the girls?”

She shrugs. “Will is a little helpless I think,” she says. “He’d like to help, but-“ she trails off.

“But,” Jon echoes. Then, because he doesn’t actually know, he asks, “Have you ever told him? About it all?”

Her lips quirk. “No. I am not sure they would believe me.”

Jon huffs a laugh, despite himself. He remembers telling Ygritte, at the way her face had twisted, and she had asked him “Are you having me on?” in that demanding tone that Jon had grown to hate. “Yeah, I get that.”

Sansa picks at the grass beneath her knees. “I am not sure I will tell the girls yet…” she says, quietly. “I don’t think Lissy understands death yet and she barely knew Robb anyways. I’ll tell her when she is older, I think.”

Jon shifts. “You know Lis best, but when you do tell her, make sure that she understands what suicide is.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Sansa asks, voice sharp. Her face turns apologetic almost immediately. “Fuck, I didn’t mean that. I am sorry.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s fine. But yes, that is my professional opinion. Make sure you tell the girls that they can come to you with any questions about suicide and if they ever feel like they need help.” His voice breaks on the last word and Jon rubs at his face, his eyes burning. Fuck, he doesn’t have any energy left for crying any more. He had thought he had spent all the tears in him yesterday, but apparently not.

Sansa puts a hand on his left foot and rubs her thumb along the bridge of his foot slowly. “Did he say anything to you?”

Jon shakes his head.

“When did you last speak with him?”

It takes him a moment to wipe the tears from his face, sniffling. “Friday,” he says, through a teary laugh. “Can you believe that? I saw him Friday and he looked fine.”

Sansa’s expression is sad as she keeps running her thumb along his foot. “Did he leave a note? Anything?”

Jon just shakes his head. He spent much of yesterday chasing down the Night’s Watch, asking them if they had found anything at Winterfell – well, anything but Robb. They had not. Even Robb’s car had been left as though he had wanted to return – door open and engine still running, lights on. “Looks like he just drove to Winterfell, climbed the stairs and threw himself off them.”

Sansa flinches at that description. “Well …” she shakes her head. “Why did the Night’s Watch call me?”

Jon frowns at her. “They did? Oh that is why you already knew, right.”

There is a flash of something across her face. “They called me,” she repeats. “Why? All of you live closer and you own as much of Winterfell as I do.”

Her jaw clenches at that. Jon remembers the row Sansa and Robb had a few years ago when Sansa had wanted to sell Winterfell. She had wanted to sell her share of Winterfell and Robb had refused and now Robb had killed himself at Winterfell. Maybe Sansa had been right. Maybe Winterfell was cursed.

“I don’t know,” Jon says. “Probably because you are the eldest now.”

He wants to take the words back as soon as he said them. She pulls away from him and wraps her arms around her own knees. She looks younger suddenly, gaunter and distraught at the thought alone. “Right,” she says, weakly. “I am the eldest now.”

It isn’t even true, Jon thinks, because he is the eldest actually, but he is not Ned’s son. He is not really their brother, even if he often forgets that little fact. Robb always said that it didn’t matter. Siblinghood was forged in a fire of experience, and Jon had gone through the same experiences as the rest of them.

“Did you know that Will has been planning my 30th surprise party for a while now?” she asks him, conversationally. She smiles, sadly, and shakes her head. “I love him, I really do, but that man cannot keep a secret to save his life. I have been giving him clues as what I actually want for a party, you know, because he can also really not plan a party. But that party is only a few weeks from now and do you know what the first thing was Will asked when I told him about Robb?”

She looks expectantly at him, so Jon shakes his head. He does not know.

“He asked me if I needed anything.” Her voice cracks and her whole body shakes. “All I wanted to tell him is I need everything to stop. That was my first thought. I wanted everything to stop, go quiet and just …” she shakes her head. “That was my first instinct.”

“Sansa-“ Jon breathes, horrified. “You-“

“I am not-“ she stops herself and shakes her head. “I do not want to die. I just want to be a person who hasn’t felt this. And if I can let Will and the girls feel … not this … that is all I want.”

Jon gets that, he really does. He has thought about it before, what kind of person he would be without all the death in his life. He had been so young when his Mam had died, only 9 and he remembers being at home alone waiting for her to come home. She had been so late and at first he had been thrilled as he could watch TV later than usual, and before he had been able to worry, the police man had come by.

He doesn’t really remember how it felt, how he had reacted to the news, but he remembers feeling like a stranger in a strangers life at Winterfell, even though Ned and Catelyn did their very best to make him feel as welcome as they could. Robb had been thrilled to have another brother, not really understanding yet what death meant.

“It’s nice to know that there are people who are innocent in all this, isn’t it?” Jon asks, softly. “It’s why I am a social worker.”

She looks at him. “I could never do what you do,” she admits. “I can’t even talk about what happened.”

“But you do see a therapist, do you not?” he asks.

She smiles, a little sheepishly. “I do. But as I am sure he would tell you, I am not exactly the most forthright patient he has ever had.”

Jon can imagine. Sansa has not spoken about things that bother her to anyone in over 15 years. And that had begun before Ned had killed himself. Sansa had always been so skillful in chattering about the most inane things until people forgot that there was a person with actual private thoughts behind that head of hers.

There is a knock from the house and they both look back at the patio, where Rickon is making his way out into the garden. He looks so young, shoulder hunched up by his ears and a sheepish expression on his face as he approaches. “Am I disturbing?” he asks, voice small.

Jon shakes his head, immediately, patting the ground beside himself. “Of course not.”

Rickon sits down, resting his chin on his knees. He looks at Jon with big eyes and softly says, “I am sorry about yesterday.”

There is nothing for him to be sorry about, Jon thinks. Jon himself had done a lot worse in the year after his Mam’s death than Rickon did yesterday.

“I shouldn’t have blamed you. I am sorry,” Rickon continues, quietly. “I know that it isn’t your fault and I am sorry I said so.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Jon says, reaching out to pat Rickon’s shoulder.

His blue eyes immediately fill with tears and his face crumples. He buries his head in his knees, both arms wrapped around them, and his sobs break Jon’s heart as he listens to his little brother cry.

Jon sighs as his own eyes flood with tears. He looks up at the sky, biting his lip, willing himself not to cry _again_. He has to be here for Rickon now. He cannot fall apart now.

“I just don’t understand,” Rickon sobs, voice breaking. “I don’t understand.”

Sansa sniffs. “We don’t either,” she says, softly. “But Robb was ill. He had depression and some people cannot see a way out of depression.”

“But why?” Rickon demands.

Jon looks over at Sansa. Her voice is gentle and soft as she continues: “I cannot tell you why. Only Robb could have told you, but there is a good chance that not even he could have. Depression is an illness we don’t fully understand yet and Robb …” she trails off and she looks a little helpless, because Rickon hasn’t stopped crying yet.

“Robb never got over Dad’s death,” Jon tries to explain. “What he saw that night…”

“What did he see?” Rickon demands. “Why won’t you tell me? I don’t understand what can be so hard that you won’t tell me what happened to my father! It is unfair. I am the only one who doesn’t know and you al won’t tell me.”

Sansa glances over at Jon. She is shaking her head.

Jon swallows. Rickon is 19. He is old enough to at least hear the story, not everything but the big picture. Rickon was right. Ned had been his father too.

Sansa makes a noise, reaching out. “Jon, don’t…”

“Why not!” Rickon interrupts her, loudly. “Tell me why he can’t tell me, Sansa? Why can’t I know! You all are treating me like I am child, but guess what Sansa. I am not! You may have missed me growing up because you were never here, but I am not a child anymore. It is not my fault you cannot deal with that.”

“Rick-“ Jon cautions him, keeping an eye on Sansa’s expression.

Sansa looks devastated, but she nods eventually. “You are right, Rickon. You are not a child any longer and I was never the sister I should have been to you, but I don’t want to tell you because you are the lucky one.”

“Lucky?” Rickon laughs entirely without humor. “How was I the lucky one?”

“You don’t have to remember,” Sansa says simply. “And you don’t have to know. The rest of us, we never had a choice, but you …” she trails off, shakes her head and her next words are so bitter, Jon winces. “You could have a childhood untouched by all of this.”

Jon winces. That was about the worst thing she could have said to Rickon, who has always said that he would have liked to grow up with them.

Rickon’s face is thunderous as he glares at Sansa. “How was my childhood untouched by all this? I had no one because of what happened. I may not remember anything like you do, but at least you got to have years with Mom and Dad! I had none! All I got was you all leaving me!”

Sansa purses her lips, nodding slightly. When she finally speaks, her voice is icy. “I can’t tell you your feelings are not valid, Rickon, but you don’t get to invalidate mine.”

“Sansa,” Jon snaps. She is the adult here. Rickon may not be right, neither of them are, but she is still the adult. Rickon is grieving and lashing out. Hurting him now will not help any of them in the long run. She turns to him with a scowl. “Rickon, if you really want to know I will tell you. But you really need to be sure because Sansa is not wrong. You have the option to not know.”

Rickon scowls at them both. “It cannot be worse than what I have been imagining my whole life anyway.”

Sansa laughs at that, a bitter sound. “I cannot be part of this,” she announces, standing up. She futilely tries to brush the mud off her jeans, before giving up and striding back towards the house without another word to them.

Rickon watches her leave and turns to Jon with a small expression. “Is it that bad?” he asks. “It cannot be that bad.”

Jon shakes his head. “It both is, and it isn’t.”

Rickon scowls. “What the hell does that mean?”

Jon tries to think back, and he wonders how to explain what Winterfell had been to all of them.


End file.
